For skies to fall (i need this to be real)
by ibuzoo
Summary: College/University AU They're screwing around and both aren't sorry, Leonardo too stubborn to accept this thing between them, because they're not a couple, definitely not. It's just sex and golden boys like Riario are as disposable as the cigarettes he burns through daily, and Leonardo can't be dependent on this, on someone, on him.


**For skies to fall (i need this to be real)**

Leonardo can hear the rhythm of minimalistic drums on the radio, underneath the crackling static of yet another irrelevant mashup song talking about summer, sex and drugs, boys with bad smiles, all part of a world that ended for him some hours ago, dropping out of Oxford, leaving his housemates, no his family, leaving everything behind. There's a flash of a smile under some aviator Ray Ban's and that's all it takes for him to enter the car, slumping down expensive leather, throwing his backpack on the back-seat and really, he couldn't care less, could he?

First time Leonardo hears of the man, someone compares them to each other, both too perfect, too much ahead for their time. It intrigues him, the name Girolamo Riario a respectable source, no whispers behind closed doors, and people were falling over themselves to talk about the man. His debates and charm seem to inspire a fervor that burnt years off peoples' face, even those Leonardo considers more hardened than most.

They speak of the usual things, father an italian senator rising to be the next prime minister, no scandals, no flaws in his perfection, of course, he ended up choosing Columbia, majoring in comparative religion and minoring in economics while attending and very often heading every conceivable rally in his spare time. Now he came on to Oxford to go for a major in political philosophy, where his rise through the ranks was meteoric, everyone expecting him to graduate as top of the class.

The man is a saint unlike Leonardo himself, classmates speak of his utter lack of the typical college social life like a gospel, no party excesses, not once to late, the man divides his time, instead, between writing a series of brilliant treatises ranging from blisteringly pragmatic proposals on revamping broken regulation of the political industry to the highest echelons of divine philosophy, and campaigning for civil liberties on various podiums throughout campus, drawing huge crowds of dazzled students every time he takes the stage.

Wherever he goes, people spoke of his presence, the man who speaks like an avenging angel, a prophet debating with the sharp intellect of long dead philosophers, shredding to pieces every argument his opponent brings forth. Charisma was a dime a dozen with politicians, but with Riario, to call it charisma was almost cheap, his words were poems of long forgotten pasts and in a city of false prophets, the undercurrents to the whispers following Riario suggest, pray even, that perhaps, he is a true one.

Leonardo believes exactly none of it.

When his eyes first fall on dark counterparts, as dark as the night, an abyss he could lose himself in, Leonardo realizes he's having a moment thinking about how pretty those eyes are and, wow, maybe he is losing his edge.

He looks away first, which is maybe even worse.

Golden boys are as disposable as the cigarettes he burns through daily.  
He knows the type so well it positively bores him, the rich narcissists who end up as little more than puppets to the country, corporatized corrupt leviathan of politics.

But the spanner in this storyline is that Riario, golden prophet wearing a halo around his dark hair, is apparently also known for never pulling any strings, arriving at wherever he wanted to go through a blend of ruthless stamina, blinding idealism and faith, and formidable intelligence. His background is wealthy but unremarkably, in other words, the man was as spotless as a marble statue.

Leonardo hates it.

The first time it happens, Leonardo knows it's a mistake.

That is not to say he doesn't go along with it, because he had at least three joints and there's only just so much he can stomach without anything nutritive for the last, what, 38 hours, without feeling the whole impact of the drugs burning trough his system. And fuck it, he's allowed some mistakes, how else will he learn from them? That's going to be important when he's thirty, he knows, to have learned from all his mistakes and be awesome and weathered and anything else.

So he makes his mistake with full working knowledge that it is one, throwing his arms around Riario's neck and kissing him back like it's okay that this is happening, like it's the last day of his life or like he's a fucking succubus trying to suck Riario's life out of his organism to put some energy back down his throat, it makes him feel so alive and for once nothing is dark or numb or needs explanation, instead everything stops and all he can feel and smell is Riario, Riario, Riario.

Hands slide from Leonardo's waist to his thighs, grips Leonardo in a way he understands, Riario pushes him up the wall, cages him with an iron grip and his mouth, a mouth that moves down to his neck and Leonardo just turns his head, let him know that yes, do that, don't stop, keep sucking, keep marking me, Riario, when he says the name it's a gasp, he can admit that and it stops being making out and goes straight to something more physical. He cups Riario's face, lets Riario kiss him again, over and over, his stubble scratchy under Leonardo's palms, on his skin, on his neck, the spots still red and itchy were he rubs the stubble against his skin.

The adrenaline petering out to nothing but a lazy kind of want for closeness, "Fuck," Leonardo exhales, because what the fuck did they just do, against the wall of the empty laboratory, students long gone and just the bright glow of the afternoon sun bursting trough the window slits, Jesus, is he really that easy?, adds, "Fuck," to empathize.

Riario's looking at him, and his eyes are intent on Leonardo's mouth, like, yeah, that's what he's thinking too, want to? And Leonardo is thinking about it, thinking okay, yeah, let's do that before my common sense catches up with my body, but that's when his phone rings.

It's Zoro.

He should have figured it out earlier, each time, should have been ten times ahead of himself to mitigate the damage, but there was never enough time and his heart was too clever to let it catch up with his mind, always been too clever.

It has been inevitable, really.

Leonardo was a man who did his research. He plies several more contacts with alcohol for the next few nights, exchanging a few more trinkets of information in return for gossip on Riario, although the exchange is rarely even necessary. He'd heard rumors of the man, of course, rumors because there was never such a thing as a "mere rumor" in Oxford, always so much more.

Rumors could be leaks, like the deliberate initial flick of butterfly wings causing the chaos theory to rule in it's full glory.  
Rumors could be self-fulfilling prophecies, like whispers that would make it to the ears of one of the wannabe messiahs in a town full of false prophets eager to pounce on the least shred of opportunity.  
Whatever they were, rumors were currency, information traded with ruthless efficiency, tiny diamonds of quantifiable truth that helped Leonardo to take people out of the cliche's society put them in.

But the rumors surrounding Riario were different. These rumors were like the first storms before a hurricane that promised to destroy Leonardo's world as he knew it.

They have ten minutes, that's all the break can spare them, ten minutes until they have to part their ways, his professor waiting in the laboratories, Riario debating with his heart and brilliance and life in a class Leonardo would never care for.

He licks at Riario's underlip and teeth scratch over the thin layer of skin, tasting, sucking, thinking about how far he could go, there's nothing tender in it, it's hard and desperate and without any feelings, it's just making out, just a kiss while Riario's fingers press in his sides, probably leaving marks on it.

"You have to go," he says between two kisses and presses closer, so close, Riario's warmth heating up his own skin, "No more time, you have to go," but his hands don't leave him, tug Riario even closer, inhaling deep. Riario always smells like lemon and saltwater, just a little, just barely on the surface mixed up with some expensive aftershave and shower gel, but always lemon and saltwater. He asks himself if his sheets would smell like saltwater after, would smell like him and he aches for it, wraps his arms tight around Riario's neck when his teeth bite down hard.

When he enters the laboratory ten minutes later, faint paint of blood smeared on his broken lips, hair rumpled, nobody comments on it, but as soon as he starts to sketch dark eyes, a haunting gaze, mild smell of lemons and saltwater in the air (perhaps it's just a delusion, his senses playing games).  
The very thought fills him with nausea.

He tears out the page.

He gets a call from an unknown number. He ignores it.

Leonardo has no excuse.

He's not boozy, nor stoned, it's a friday night and he's clean and honestly, isn't that the most absurd part in the whole story? He just want Riario to fuck him and doesn't feel like saying no to himself anymore.

The first time they fuck, and god, he wonders if Riario knows what it feels like, he pushes and presses, a gasp, a moan, heavy breathing and Leonardo doesn't know whose voice is the raspy one, can't feel anything besides dark curls on his shoulders, rough long hands on his hips, pressure on his skin, bruises that will come with morning sun, lemon and saltwater, his mind is never silent, still wonders if Riario knows how it sounds when he gasps Leonardo's name, if he knows how he looks when he throws his head back and moans.  
He wonders if anyone else knows, or if he's the first.

He doubts he is.

He doesn't know why that makes him feel better, because deep down a truth hidden from his mind, he knows Riario is not just a night to him. Maybe he feels better knowing he can want someone and that person doesn't want him. It's almost safe. And Riario sure as hell doesn't want Leonardo, and he can't blame him.

His sheets smell like lemons and saltwater. He didn't changed them for another night.

It had been said by several people, at entirely separate accounts, that Riario was a "force of nature". Leonardo could agree with them.

The second time he lets Riario fuck him is because Riario wants to, he really obviously does, if the marks on his neck and his bloody lips are any indication, and Leonardo just can't find the energy to put him off, and really why should he when the stubble burns red on his skin, when fingers press him down, what should he want more at all?

When he comes, it's the kind of orgasm that makes his brain crack and splinter into a thousand pieces, not able to feel anything then the slight drum of his veins, his mind coming to rest, a dark blank void without any inventions, without clues or deductions to make, just softness, the pillow on his cheek, eyes heavy, eyes closing.

He doesn't feel Riario get up and leave.

On his screen the unknown number flashes again. He ignores it.

Riario fucks like he debates: sharp, solid, pushing at limits and breaking boundaries until you lie in a mess of wanting, feeling, needing, soliciting him and only him.  
Sometimes Leonardo wants to wrap his arms around his neck and squeeze, press every breath out of his lungs and tell him that not everybody wants to lose all dignity in bed.

But he forgets it the minute Riario presses him down on the bed and strips his clothes.

Leonardo has always been a genius, advanced classes in every subject, learning was a cinch for him, and ideas way ahead of his age, of the world's age. Adults admired him, classmates envied him, but something changed with puberty. The urge to please the world became neglected, became despised, people boosting him to ways he didn't want to develop, collaborative consumption overrated, concepts and designs forged out of his mind remaining changed by scientist who didn't understand him, didn't understand them, didn't understand his world.

He dropped out of high school for two years, traveled around the world, a globetrotter in it's finest, dragged Zoro and Nico behind, found Vanessa on his way and finally came back to England, prude and cold and rainy England, awaiting him with nothing then a place at Oxford.

Oxford caught him, Oxford cemented him, Oxford was his sanctuary.

Oxford wants to give him a future, but Leonardo isn't sure if that's what he wants.

"You should take better care of yourself," a murmur from a husky voice, lips scratching on his skin and his other hand deftly works down the buttons of Leonardo's shirt.

"What makes you think I don't?" Leonardo hazards a glance at the leftover takeaway he'd picked up for dinner, something Nico insisted on to ensure his health and really, wasn't Nico a sweetheart, "Takeaway is perfectly healthy."

"I saw you before. You were shoving weed in your reefer to kill an elephant."  
Leonardo isn't altogether sure why this is coming up now, knows it's a hyperbole, but he answers anyway, as authoritatively as he can while Riario is leaving damp, distracting kisses just above his belt buckle, the bastard doing this with the precision of an assassin, not leaving one spot not touched, "Don't be ridiculous, I know the exact dosage someone of my build can handle."

"By all means, tell me more about how much you and your build can handle."

Riario is looking at him, all dark eyes and seductive glaze, thin mouth twisted up in an infuriating little smirk that Leonardo can't decide whether he wants to kiss or batter the shit out of him. But it doesn't matter either way because Riario is drawing him in, close and cautious and fuck it, it's been a long day and Leonardo doesn't particularly feel like battling with his conscience.

Besides he never cared for common sense anyway.

The fourth time it's Riario pressing him down on the davenport in the loft, it's an ugly item of furniture with holes and slashes and a sickening green color which bleached out over the years, somewhere even the cushion comes off but when Zoro brought it home from the bulk garbage with a lightbulb grin that would even overshadow Tokyo's skylines at night, Leonardo couldn't really find the heart to tell him no, they couldn't keep it. Besides it was soft and well established, long years of use made the leather smooth.

Leonardo tugs his own shirt over his head, and he swears, he will swear on every religious text that has ever existed, he just let Riario in to give him some notes he jotted down on the dissemination of a dirty bomb exploring personal and political issues ("Why do you even think about this?," Riario doesn't want an explanation, wouldn't get it anways), that was all but it was Riario pressing into him, kissing him, saying, "The sofa looks comfortable," and Leonardo going, "Yeah," and it's this, and that voice in his head going no, no, no, what are you doing, stop.

And it's Leonardo, ignoring that voice, or rather, acknowledging that the voice has a valid point, but shut up now, okay, because he still didn't start his thesis that is due in three days, still didn't eat since 28 hours and fuck Nico who will get on his nerves, forcing him for at least three healthy meals a day, didn't think about Zoro to whom he still owes 20 bucks for the last junk. All he thinks about is Riario and lemon and saltwater and aftershave that's burning in his nose with it's expensive scent and his hands and his Golden boy attitude and his charms and that's all, he comes with barely any effort every time.

He doesn't have to fantasize now, can just go, "Here, here, yeah," moves Riario's hand, and says, "I want you," and Riario is pressing down on him, caging him again but not this time, not again, Leonardo presses against hard flesh, a body perfectly shaped under this dark henley's and button downs and Leonardo is flipping them upside down, sitting on Riario's legs, grinding against him, slapping away long fingers to rip on disturbing fabric, tugging down trousers and then he's on his knees, puts his mouth around Riario's dick, and he sucks.

He feels nails dig on his skull, a grunt or a moan or something in between, his name pressed between thin lips, but nothing distracts him, all his concentration on hard warm pulsing flesh in his mouth, chapped lips and his tongue devouring, feasting and a, "Yeah."

Riario comes.

Leonardo would count it as a victory, except that he's coughing, because Riario just came in his mouth and the bastard is smiling at him, not laughing, just smiling and it isn't even genuine, and Leonardo fishes a gum out of his pocket, jams it between his teeth and that's all before Riario fully attacks his mouth again, all wet and warm and tongues dancing with the half bitten gum until Riario retreats, huffing, "Why can't you buy normal gum? What is it even?"

And Leonardo chews, says, "It's Pineapple and Lemon, you tosser, piss off."

He gets three calls from an unknown number. He ignores them all.

Leonardo doesn't know what Riario wants from him, never understood the game of longing, wanting, rejecting and starting all over again. This is all starting to feel rather too much like masochism and he's not even sure he completely understands why.  
There's a message on his phone, number unknown but really, he doesn't even need to think twice to know which number it is, and Leonardo replies, because he's lame, doesn't know what to answer instead, replies 'We should stop this.'

'Say stop. Next time.'

'Not going to be a next time, so no problem.'

There's a pause, a full minute without a reply and Leonardo thinks, almost, there wouldn't be an answer at all, but then his phone starts to vibrate and his eyes read the message, can almost see the smirk behind the words, haunting him, saying,

'Trust me. There's always going to be a next time with you.'

And really, how could Leonardo argue with that?

Art is...

Well, Zoro calls it banal diversion but Zoro is a philistine and Leonardo mostly ignores it, because Zoro is Zoro and like a brother or even more, but not enough and he would risk his life for the guy (again, besides the times he already did, another story and some scars that'll remind him the rest of his life), there are too many years and skinned emotions between them and all that's left is clinging to each other like families do, and isn't Zoro and Nico and Vanessa all he has left?

So anyway, art is...

There are a lot of different kind of arts and artists, packed into the space of their art depots or their homes or even outside, anywhere where inspiration would hit them, with their minds too loud and almost always full of ideas that no one can ever understand, no one ever can get a grip on their concepts and senses, and their brushes dance and sing and create worlds completely inhuman or humanly divine.

Art loves like nobody else ever will, a cry and stutter and wail in your own world, communication as a beat that keeps steady and honest and reliable and Leonardo sees art as a thousand faces and eyes, not as the others do, nameless and glad and loud and their eyes are locked on his artworks like that will tell them anything and oh, oh breathing is hard, breathing is boring, breathing is overrated, loud, harsh and it's not better than the drugs he needs to keep his mind from overreacting, from running with the energy of two nukes and it's not worse nor different, it's all the same, life is hard, life is boring, art is overrated, when his veins pump and he can hear his blood rushing trough his mind, pressing him forward, urging him wider and he isn't running though everyone thinks he is and he misses the way the drugs keep his mind faster and clear and Riario doesn't do that, Riario just ties him up and pins him down and it makes reality blurred and hard and he can see himself spread his legs and tips back his head, and that's what he doesn't want to remember when everything else is gone.

Art is, but Riario is too.

It rains, the drops of a storm hanging in clouds far above him pelting furiously against the glass of huge windows in their loft. The streets are near deserted but Leonardo has no interested in humans either, sketches the way the shadows make the street look obscure, sketches the dark sky, charcoal on paper, scratching, drawing, blurring.

It is loud in the loft, music blasting from the stereo singing of long forgotten loves and lives, from the risk to run away and lose yourself. Leonardo doesn't pay attention to the other's, doesn't see the way Nico's head lays down in Zoro's lap, how Zoro's fingers fondle trough thick blond locks while he's smoking a reefer, blowing thin white fume plumes in the air, dancing along with Vanessa, and she's beautiful isn't she, with her white dress and ribbons in her hair, flying on invisible wings just a tad over the floor tiles, "What are you drawing?"

It's her voice, clear and sunny that rips him out of his torpor, his hands black from charcoal, from sketches on paper, and when he looks down two endless dark orbs staring right back at him, a perfect nose, a mouth in a smirk,haunting, taunting.

His voice is hard, cutting, "Nothing," he says, and tears out the page.

"I think it's pretty," Nico offers lightly, later, crumpled paper smoothed in his hand, still wrinkled and creased, smudged charcoal.  
Sometimes you can't get anything out of Nico at all, but at times, if you don't try too hard, he'll surrender something. Leonardo bites the inside of his lower lip, forces himself to inhale and exhale before he says anything at all, it's Nico and the kid doesn't know better, doesn't know about Leonardo's misery, doesn't know about Riario, does he?  
"I wasn't asking you."  
Nico laughs, so easily, lightheaded as if nothing lasts on his shoulder, "No," he says, "You weren't."

"You dismiss me because you think yourself mad," Riario tells him between two classes, back pressing against the wall, a knee between his legs and hell Riario, what are you doing?

Leonardo is more than mad, knows it himself, he burns so bright that it scares people. Everyone else holds a candle and Leonardo holds a spitting, flaming torch, and if you get too close he'll use it to burn down your bones and flesh, standing on your ashes. Leonardo is a pyromaniac and Riario is fascinated by him but knows to keep his distance because Leonardo seems to be the only one unable to get burned from his indefatigable exuberance, and this is good, this is how it should be, and who knows how long that will last.

"I dismiss you because you want so much," Leonardo replies quietly, "And because of that, you do not know what you want at all."

It doesn't even last three days, distance is overrated and he hears his own voice, remarkable steady in this situation, saying, "This is not a good idea," and it really isn't but there's stubble scratching on his neck and a warm breath in his ear, a whisper with bite, "So tell me to stop," but Leonardo just closes the distance, because fuck it all. He doesn't even care.

He just wants the one thing that makes sense right now, and that's that Riario is something he understands, manipulative bastard that he is, Golden boy Riario, who moans, warns when they part, "Leonardo," but Leonardo swings his legs over Riario's lap, and Riario grabs at his hips with one hand, crowds Leonardo against the arm of the couch, and yeah, yeah. They're making out, that's what this is, and Leonardo is half-hard, and so is Riario, and they're going to have sex, he knows that, he should say stop, doubts Riario will, so why should he bother, it's sex and yeah, Leonardo wants it, wants to feel it, wants to feel Riario inside, pressing, harder, faster.

Instead, he says, "We're so screwed."

And Riario chuckles, smirks like the good old fashioned villain he is, hand sliding up Leonardo's shirt, says, "Probably."  
And they have sex on the ugly couch, and it's the second time, the fifth time over all and he wants to laugh, because. Because. Because their lives, they make no sense. There's no beginning, middle, or end, it's just life and it makes no sense. He slugs down the laugh and closes his eyes.

"We can't keep doing this," Leonardo says,almost whispers, after, pulling his jeans up.  
Riario sighs, face closed up, the smirk never leaving his lips but there's a falter, wasn't there, "Then tell me to stop."  
Leonardo bites his lip, fumbles with the buttons of his shirt. He doesn't reply.

Usually there's no pinning Leonardo down to anything, no ordering him around, no commanding him, no definitive answers when you need them the most. Zoro and Nico are resigned to this by now, Vanessa not so much (sometimes she tries to get trough to him, no need to say that these intentions were fruitless). Nico used to say that Leonardo can back you into a corner just as you realize you can never do the same to him. Perhaps that's it, why it irritates him so much that Riario played their game a lot better then Leonardo, perfected it in the time Leonardo still thought about a dozen other variables. Riario has hundred layers of untapped charm, the smirk on his lips, his puppy eyes, and the ability to win the heart of every man and women the minute he walks into the room.

All Leonardo can meet with is a sort of breathtaking arrogance that somehow becomes endearing from repeated exposure.

Zoro watches him, concern slashed across his face, and Leonardo desperately wants to reassure him, but finds he simply can't anymore. He's so tired, of hiding and searching for answers that never seem to come or when they do, they leave him only a thousand more questions, wide open and vulnerable and that's something he doesn't want to be, for no one. So he closes his eyes as soon as the drugs hit his system and he lays down, just want to stop to hurtle toward that nothing, the void that will consume him, and spit him back out hours later with nothing left.

Leonardo drinks black coffee and eats toast while he scrolls through the websites, blogs and articles on some new biology nuclear weapons and stem cell research, debates if a real life Iron Man suit would be possible in near future, blueprints of a possible Jet pack as attachments.

"Are you busy?" Zoro asks, hearing chatter in the background before it's getting closer and Vanessa with Nico wander in like stray kittens, both in pajamas and impossible bed head, even worse then Leonardo's own.  
"Just hacking a lab session," Leonardo replies nonchalant, hours of wasted night hours clearly visible on his eyes, red rimmed and tired after 30 hours without sleep, and Leonardo really should practice to conceal it because there's a frown on Zoro's face, creasing his front, Leonardo sighs, hears, "Didn't you sleep?"

"It's a rite of passage," Leonardo tells him, a tad bit too enthusiastic, a tad too excited, "setting yourself on fire while the professor's not around, or figuring out how to make meth in your uni's lab."  
In the corner of his eyes he sees Nico roll his eyes, "Of course you did," he mutters and Leonardo can't help himself, protests, "It's not actually that hard."  
"Aren't you studying biology?" Vanessa asks, half asleep, rubbing sleep off her beautiful green eyes.  
"Biomedicine," Leonardo corrects, as he does every time and there's an element of smugness in his voice when he turns to her, adding, "How's the guy, did your night pan out?"

Neither Vanessa nor Nico knew how Leonardo does this every single time (Zoro perhaps, cause Zoro knows him, Zoro could unravel the mystery, but he never did, remained silent and smirked while taking a gulp of Leonardo's mug.) Leonardo had already left the party by then, some crazy idea in his head and obviously no sleep the whole night.

"Oh God," Vanessa says aloud and there it was, the dawning when her eyes blew up just a little, her face pales just a tad and Leonardo can't help it, feels utterly conceited when she says, "you've slept with him too, haven't you."

Leonardo laughs and refills his mug.

"You can't stop me," Riario tells him. His lips tasted like the golden sun his whole face and image was bathed in, his eyes were colder then steel. Another hour where Leonardo should have said stop, but no one talks about the fact that this is a state of mind neither of them ever will achieve.

"I can't let you win, either," Leonardo finally responds, and his voice is slurred, sleepy and it's barely above a whisper, doesn't want to acknowledge it himself. The sheets are worn, his head is a pounding mess and he feels as if the darkness makes a handful of lying promises, silence and calmness.  
Riario's lips twitch, he could see it even in the dark of the room, even without the moon shining trough thick glasses, it's not a smirk but it feels like a crack in armor, a bead of light. Riario's a lot more than Leonardo can ever let him be, an eternal argument and perhaps, he tells himself, perhaps it's for the best.

"We're at an impasse, then," Riario says, voice not louder then Leonardo's, sounds almost relieved. Neither of them truly want to contemplate where this is all really going. If no one draws first blood then maybe no one ever has to bleed.

Leonardo licks his lips, which taste of bad booze, the faint smell of marihuana and something copper, doesn't think about it, sucks on it and lets out a sigh, it was a very long night,agrees and adds, "There are worse places to be."

He stops counting after this, because that's when he's ready to admit it to himself, it's not a one-night stand, not a one-night thing or a two-night thing, it's something more and not enough so he let's Riario fuck him, but he stops counting, he has to, because he can't keep them all straight anymore and how scary is that, that he had sex with Riario enough times that he's lost count of them all? It's terrifying, and it drives home that he needs to stop, that he's got to say no the next time Riario presses against his back, buries his face in the back of Leonardo's neck, got to push off, say no, I don't want this, and pray he can mostly make it sound like the truth because it's such a fucking lie.

Riario bites, a sharp pain, Leonardo knows he does that, he always does, only this time it's on the nape of his neck and he can feel blood trickling, and there's no way no one, not even Nico, sweet innocent Nico who doesn't seem to notice anything so far, doesn't know exactly what happened.

Leonardo discovers he's not ready for this to stop being a secret the minute it stops being one, not that it really ever was one, because he smells like lemon and saltwater all the damn time now, and if not himself then his sheet, they reek of it, are soaked to the point that Leonardo wakes sometimes thinking the other man didn't already left, and all he can pray for, is for Riario to go find another friend for the night, let Leonardo pretend he's still got some sense in his head, stop making him feel like his head is gonna explode from the void he causes, stop making him feel like Leonardo's couch is where he wants to be.

"Why do I keep you around?", he moans, presses out before Riario catches his lips and kisses him, wet, deep, Leonardo scratches and dugs his fingers down Riario's spine and it's a joke, it's just a joke, because Leonardo isn't keeping Riario, has no plans for that kind of future, because he is going to end this. He is.

His mobile vibrates incessantly, belligerent. 4 times. He doesn't need to look on the screen to know it's from an unknown number. He turns it off and changes the sheets (the smell of lemon and saltwater still clinging in his nose hours later).

Everyone has weaknesses, faults, flaws, fractures, things they're not quite rational about, things that can be used against them.

Leonardo always used to think ahead, always tried to cover them up.

He fears the moment his mind follows his heart.

He waits for things to get better.  
They don't.

"Do you want something?", Riario asks, nearly snaps, something sharp underneath the words, something uninviting and yeah, Leonardo gets it, but thinks oh, fuck it, answers instead, "We have a somewhat erratic poker game."

"It's nearly one in the morning," Riario points out as if Leonardo didn't know himself, campus dark, night long fallen and springtime chill freezing his spine from wearing a too thin shirt and maybe it wasn't a good idea to bring this on, to ask the man when he ignored his messages the last four days, Riario was clearly on his way home, probably catching up with sleep, the lack thereof clearly visible on the dark spots under his eyes and Leonardo really shouldn't have asked.

"Someone will still be around," Leonardo hears himself say, doesn't want to let it slip, adds, "We're not exactly Las Vegas, but no one ever sleeps here, either."

Riario finally stops his long strides and looks at Leonardo, really looks at him, eyes sharp as knives, daggers cutting in his skin, his voice the same when he answers, "You realize I'll probably win."

Leonardo shrugs, "It's okay, I'm brilliant at cheating," he replies, smirks, and a ghost of a smirk mirrors over Riario's mouth in response.

"I want you to ride me," Riario says, orders, Poker long forgotten, cards spread on the floor, and no, no, that's not what Leonardo wants at all, he wants Riario above him, holding him down and keeping him still, pinning him with his body, caging him on the floor, on the mattress with his iron will and raw divine strength, but it's too late, he's straddled across Riario, and Riario is in him, pressing, invading, and god, it feels so good, and Riario groans, fingers clawing in Leonardo's hips, and that hurts in such a good way. "You're always mine," Riario says, growls almost. "You're always mine."

And Leonardo rises, falls, feels every inch of that ownership, feels the burn and need and everything at once and it's too much, always too much.

Things were different before, Leonardo could feel it, though he wasn't ready to accept it, not yet. He sat on his bed cross-legged, cigarette dangling in his fingers (no weed in it, he swore) while his eyes followed Riario, every movement sharply sentineled. His room looked like a mess, clothes and blueprints, sketches and art supplies, wires, tubes, all spread along the ugly carpeted floor, burying it under.

"This has good balance," Riario's voice breaks the silence,offers, raising a prototype, a gun with micro sensors coded to Leonardo's own palm print, because he saw Skyfall, and who would he be if if he didn't create one for himself, a better one even (voice-operated self-destruct mechanism, muriatic acid included) and Riario was staring along the barrel, no need to panic him, so Leonardo kept quiet.

"You could get a hobby, you know," Leonardo suggests, observing the golden boy and making mental notes about the trigger system, but Riario already puts the gun down, takes a moment to uncurl his fingers, and Leonardo thinks, cusses in his head, Jesus Christ.

"Is this your hobby?" Riario asks, gesturing to the half-built weaponry and other prototypes that surround them.  
Leonardo shrugs, offers lightly, "Sometimes I take down popular websites, you know, youtube, tumblr, facebook, twitter, for fun", and at that Riairo's mouth twitches, like he doesn't know whether to laugh or not, adds "Cyber terrorism as entertainment?"

Leonardo huffs, takes another pull on his cigarette, blows out the fine white smoke which looks almost light blue, says eventually, "I don't suppose you have a lot of very long and boring Sunday afternoons, do you?"

Vanessa eyes glances over his laptop and the opened window and informs him, "Facebook stalking is so passé."

Leonardo groans and rolls his eyes because what could he say in his defense? The opened tab still showed Riario's Facebook site, strangely blank as if it was abandoned months ago, nothing remarkable in his messages, pictures too blurry, just one clear and acute in a music store, CD in hand and Leonardo's eyes are fixed on the apparent display of his face, at least 4-5 years younger.

After a while Vanessa says, "Also, no one even has CD's anymore. It's all iTunes and shit" and really, how could Leonardo argue with that?

He's behind on his theses and his professors push him, urge him to finish them, faster, better.

He can't find the right words, so he drops it.

Leonardo presses his face against the leather, enjoys the warmth, because seat heaters are awesome, takes a deep breath and can smell the typical scent of lemons and saltwater, just faintly, the scent that seems to cling on everything involving Riario, so he asks, "Want to stop and make out?"

That gets Riario's attention.

"Or you could just take me home, waste this golden opportunity when we're actually alone in the car, without my misfits anywhere around to walk in on us," and Leonardo didn't think Zoro was ever going to forgive either of them, and Leonardo had laughed and laughed and laughed, adds, "That's cool too."  
Riario's hand is on his thigh, thumb working into it even through his jeans, he says, "What is it with you and my car?"

"This car was made for making out," there's no other explanation Leonardo could give him, the dark leather and the speed of the car always tickling the sensation that sits under his skin like electricity, crackling through his veins and making him want things he can't name. He thinks maybe it's that need to know, that fascination he has with interesting, the urgency to wrap his mind around these things and pull them down so he's in control, knows how to deal with them. Beauty can't be contained, the feeling of the thrill can't either and maybe it's that, maybe he wants something he can't have, like someone two or three years older and kind of insane in all the best ways, never boring, holding Leonardo's focus, because Riario always demands all the focus in the room, like a magnet, south to Leonardo's north, drawing him in, having something that's all his to take out and examine.

The drugs keep him still, the dose always a little stronger these days since he met Riario, he can feel the throbbing in his head sometimes, the need for more and more infringing on him but he doesn't want to give it up, the impulsiveness and the obsessiveness and the want too present, and what he feels like now, is to hide the Lexus somewhere dark and crawling in Riario's lap and turn on the radio.

He sees Riario change gears in the corner of his eyes and then they're parked, car off, key still in the ignition so the radio is on and it's dark, so dark Leonardo can just barely see Riario's perfect face and the smirk on his lips and he's already pulling Leonardo over, seat pushed back, straddling his lap, Leonardo pushing down on Riario's crotch and yeah, Riario whispers, low, "We've only got an hour."

The radio is low on a song Leonardo never heard before but the beat is something else, the beat gets him, and Riario's hands are under his , caressing his skin, then scratching, dipping down in the flesh, leaving marks for sure, bastard. But Leonardo hums in acknowledgment, answers, "So we've got an hour."

"Better make it a good hour then," and that's all it needs for them.

(Leonardo tries to remember the words of the song so he can Google them later though the feeling of Riario's fingers and stubble and tongue on his skin is exciting, vibrating, so he laughs, sings along, low, under his breath, and Riario is actually sort of full-out laughing, a deadly beautiful sound and when his hand slides down in Leonardo's pants, he forgets the song completely.)

It's a couple of days later when the professor keeps him in after lectures, tells him his deliberations are brutally genius but woozy to an extreme that no one can really follow them, not even a Nobel laureate. Too late, filing date long past. He's too young, too brilliant but he can't develop fully, too much untapped potential in his unfocused head, too many territories he wants to explore and enrich with his ingenuity, too many matters of no importance in his mind.

He comes home to an empty loft, all out on some campus party Zoro organized on the ground of some rich narcissist, there's even a slip with Nico's writing, the address where to find them, making sure Leonardo knows where to go. But there's too much in his head at the moment, too much to think about, his mind racing unisono with the beating of his veins, he needs to calm down, needs to get his dose. He gets showered, changed, rolled the marihuana and the tabac in his hands, and right as he wants to light it, the doorbell rings and breaks the silence, and he still has the reefer in hand and fuck society, he couldn't care less what someone would think about him, so he opens the door.

It's Riario.

It's Riario, and whatever he sees in Leonardo's face has him walking in and shutting the door behind him, pressing Leonardo against the wall,kissing him like it's an argument, all wet and open and warm, tongue licking in Leonardo's mouth and Leonardo, he said this was never going to happen again. He did. He doesn't know if it's that why he's grabbing on to Riario by his jacket, and kissing back, pressing on Riario like his life is going to end suddenly, and they have to get upstairs somehow, right now, because Leonardo had a really shitty day and he need to forget, need to feel void again, his mind calming down slowly, he says so, and Riario agrees.

They get up the steps, and it's slow-going, Leonardo almost slips because he needs it fast, he needs it raw, why doesn't Riario see, but Riario doesn't let him, and yeah, yeah, he knows what he said. He knows.

It's desperate and they have sex like they kiss, like it's an argument they're both trying to win still, not like the first time, it's always an argument with them, but this is almost painful in how good it feels, all the adrenaline burning off into each other, their bodies fitting like they're supposed to, and once he comes it's like something in him clears, drains away the raw pain from his head, the weight on his shoulders.

Riario doesn't leave instantly, Riario stays and holds him down, presses kisses down his chest, his hips, his thighs, back up to his neck, touches him like he needs to be held still, and Leonardo does, he really does, and he buries his nose in his pillow, his own shower gel and sex and sweat and lemon and saltwater. He closes his eyes and sleeps.

When he wakes in the early dawn, fog still clinging on the grass and the streets outside, Riario is long gone.

"Seriously," Zoro says, when Leonardo's mobile vibrates for the fourth time in five minutes and all Leonardo can offer is a scowl at him while his fingers dance over the keyboard, but Zoro adds, "you look wasted, tell him to bugger off. Stress leads to, like, heart attacks and shit."  
Leonardo raises an eyebrow and answers, deadpan,"I'm sure that would bother me more if I actually had a heartbeat."

Sometimes he imagines their relationship like a massive chess game in which he's just a pawn in Riario's sick machinations. ("A knight," Riario told him once when they watched The Seventh Seal, pressed to each other on the couch, arms touching, Leonardo sketching chessboards and faces, "too unpredictable to be a pawn.")

He'd rather be a bishop, if they're getting all technical, solid, fast, important, but instead he turns out to be some sort of sacrificial lamb in this relationship, just a lamb being led to the slaughter. No matter how hard he fights, whatever path he tries to take, he still ends up in the same place every time, he still ends up mesmerized in whatever spell Riario has put him under, he still ends up losing himself and there isn't the right moment to ask himself, never finds the guts to ask, „Is it worth it?"

The fear to hear his own voice screaming, scratching at him, telling him, "No," is too large.

The sun shines down with a radiating unyielding force and Leonardo scratches at his shoulder, wincing at the pain of a healing scar where Riario bit him hard,adamant, relentless. He can still feel his teeth breaking the skin, the sharp pain the exact aphrodisiac they both needed. Now the scar heals, mostly, leaves an angry mark and Leonardo wonders once more if this is it, Riario playing for keeps, drawing Leonardo in and saying Leonardo is his, and maybe, just maybe Leonardo should mind more then he does.

Some days he wishes their places were reversed.

When his phone starts to chime, he ignores it.  
He'd hoped for a brief moment, that things were going to be okay.

Leonardo knows he shouldn't do it but there's only so much self-control he can manage on one day and Riario smells great right now, smells like soap and coffee and adrenaline, there's that underlying scent that's just Riario, lemon and saltwater and it smells so good, it does, so now he gives in because they're all alone in the auditorium, Riario's voice lecturing about the political importance of the british export just minutes ago, checking out his discourse for later when people will push and go head over heels to hear the golden boy argue and dash his opponents arguments. So he stops thinking and buries his face in Riario's neck, breathes in, deep, and he feels Riario shudder, whispering, "Artista," and really when did this happen, when did they start giving each other nicknames? But Leonardo can't mull over it, can't say no, so he lets Riario pick him up by his waist, let himself be manhandled on the table and then Riario's between his legs and god. God.

Kissing Riario feels like everything he's been wanting these hours, pulls him in tighter, hooks a leg around his slender waist clothed in some far too posh designer jeans, something Leonardo couldn't care less, but it suits him, suits Riario and his image and when Riario moves down to his neck, inhales, Leonardo is already half-hard, despite how often they already did this. His body wants, right now, and he doesn't understand why his mind don't want him to have it, so he shuts it off, says, "Riario," and it's a whine, it's a name and it's desperate, it's pleading, it's gospel, and Riario does not have that much self-control.

Leonardo doesn't have either.

He wonders if somewhere, whoever had orchestrated this entire sick game, is watching.  
Laughing.  
Waiting for him to make the next move, waiting to see what he'll do when he's finally backed into a corner.

This isn't right.

They're playing this game a bit over a semester now, screwing around on equal grounds, the campus, the loft which isn't regarded as Leonardo's home, not even his room, his bed, Leonardo is a globetrotter, a waif in a world where nothing is feasible enough to hostel him. He can ply with that, they never share a whole night, neither a morning, that are the rules, that is the game.

But this doesn't feel right, this is Riario's flat and of course it is as perfect as it's owner, white and modern, finest leather and prized decoration, marble statues, some oil paintings, clean and nearly holy. Leonardo's presence alone feels as profanity.

Riario presses him down on fresh washed sheets, white with tiny scriptures on it and the smell of lemons and saltwater is overwhelming, and everything's too clean, too kosher and Leonardo feels like throwing up, feels like a bacteria,a dirty scumbag who's polluting the perfection and purity of Riario's halo, golden shining around dark curls and even darker eyes who are drilling in his head, keeping him, adhering him to the bed, flat on his back.

When Riario's fingers start to strip him down, shirt over his head, scratches on his bare chest, it all feels rather like blasphemy.

This isn't right.

They have sex four times that night, and the dawn brings the fifth time, Leonardo not able to stop, not able to believe he can have this.

He bunks as soon as Riario sleeps.

The next time Leonardo brings Riario to his bed, the memory of Riario's flat is still flashing in his mind, still vivid and bright and he wishes he had just bitten the bullet and rented an apartment, or something, anything, because he kind of hates that all he has to offer is the loft they're currently squatting in. He loves it, no argument about that, and it has never bothered Leonardo before, dwelling how he does, because he kind of likes it in a way, messy, chaotic, likes drifting from den to den despite it being so haphazard. But now, after he saw Riario's flat, his mind seems to understand what his heart never wanted to see, the difference between them both a ravine, and now, bringing Riario back to the loft, he wishes it was somewhere better than his makeshift bedroom in one of the old offices of the place. Not a mattress with a mess of sheets and blankets and pillows.

Riario doesn't seem to mind.

Leonardo sleeps the whole next day, university be damned, with his arms curled hard around his sheets, smelling sex and musk and (most importantly) lemon and saltwater, and he can't let go.

He can't.

„Do you trust him implicitly?", Zoro asks, arms crossed and front still creased, concern clearly on his face.

Something about Leonardo bristles, takes a breath, fingers stop tipping, hovering over the keyboard of his mobile, his face betraying whom he was answering anyways, replies defensive, "Why wouldn't I?"

Why wouldn't he?

'I need a date for a charity gala display.'

Leonardo stops checking his emails on his phone, sipping on a very strong coffee and reads the message three times, debating if this is some giant joke, but the man never jokes, Leonardo knows him well enough, even trough the fog of sarcasm, this was an ernest question. He procrastinates, takes a deep breath and writes.

'No'

'You don't have to dance or give money to anyone or anything. I mean, we could have sex in a bathroom, but that's honestly up to you.'

'I hate everyone at these events, frequently including you, and the 'charity' moniker is just stuck on to make everyone feel good about themselves, not because they care.'

'One night, free champagne, and sex if you want it, come on Artista, I don't actually have that many people left who tolerate me once we've got our clothes back on.'

Leonardo knows he will give in, knew it from the beginning, and it's endlessly frustrating.

'Who says I tolerate you? Two hours, then we're leaving. I'm sure i can think of more entertaining ways how we can spend the night anyway.'

There was a pause, a minute or even two and Leonardo couldn't help but keep his breath, tapping nervously with his fingers on the table, ignoring the gaze Nico shot him from across the room, his eyes too fixated on the mobile in his hand. He couldn't suppress the grin on his face as soon as his mobile flashes with a new message.

'Three hours. And I'm sure you can.'

"That's a fucking ugly suit."

The entire situation is too abstract and absurd for Leonardo to even understand what's going on, because he's in a fitting room of some posh designer shop and really, he would have avoided this at all costs, was never much of a supporter of consumerist society, but Riario had dragged him, Riario is paying ("I can't take you to a gala display in a suit from Macys', they'll rip you apart, and my image will suffer.") and Leonardo refuses to see it as date, or shopping.

There is that ever present smirk on Riario's lips, amusement even and Leonardo wastes a moment reflecting that he'll still rather hide in the loft than walk into the shark-infested waters of the gala party, full of politicians, models, journalists and hangers-on.  
He needs something to smoke.

When Riario circles his finger in a gesture that makes Leonardo spin around once, Leonardo can't detain his eyes from rolling, adds, "That's still a fucking awful suit."

There isn't a nod nor another sign that Riario was of his mind. He's sitting in the leather chair right in front of Leonardo's fitting room and sips on a champagne glass, amusement clearly flickering in his eyes. Leonardo groans and flees back in his cubicle, pulls the curtain with more force then necessary, when Riario finally raises his voice, says, "How do you feel about Vivienne Westwood?"

They didn't even stick it out for two hours and the hotel room they seek refuge in is perhaps uglier than all the other places they have ever been, which is at once fitting and tragic, and sometimes it feels like Leonardo is measuring out his life in unattractive wallpaper and cracked doors, the view outside the window like desperation built into bricks, the light of a flickering neon sign illuminating faded colors and stains on the floor, on the sheets.

The physical is something so separate from their intellectual duels, a desperate attempt to fit together, it's sometimes startling, humiliating even when Riario tells him to kneel and even though he does not understand, Leonardo kisses the dirt, pretends it is full lips, a smirk, setting himself on fire before realizing, that not even he can conquer the sun.

Riario's mouth against his throat, moving for the two of them, and sometimes it feels like all they're really doing is dragging on something, making forgiveness with their bodies for sins they cannot name, a despondent prayer, only it means so much to both of them that they refuse to let it go. It's exhausting, it's painful, but they can't sever this entirely because they'll never be able to live with themselves afterwards.

Riario's lips shape three words into his skin, "No, you don't," Leonardo snaps on automatic, hard and scared and too fast, wrenching his mind as far away from Riario's thoughts as he can because he can't, can't let these words speak to him with stars in his mouth, the sky falling on his shoulders, head spinning and he feels as if Riario has crucified him on a crossbar, fixed him into place.  
Riario laughs, and it's a cruel and cutting sound, a brutal hard kiss on his flesh and bones, voice barely over a whisper, spiced with venom, "Do you still tell yourself that, Artista?"

Leonardo closes his eyes, doesn't answer and tries to breath.

Nothing smells like lemon or saltwater.

There isn't a single call from an unknown number the next day.

He trails behind with his deadlines again, his professors' hope long died alongside his dynamism.

He doesn't bother about it.

"You've started chain smoking again," Nico observes at last, it's always Nico who observes the little things, the flaws he tries to hide, and Leonardo wants to hurt him, wants to cut him off, stop speaking Nico, stop it, adds defensive, really snaps, "Pointing out the obvious to forget about Zoro fucking the barista girl last night?"

It's mostly to prove a point, but Nico flinches, makes a face, hurt, flexes his hands around his mug, mumbles, "Be glad my coffee's gone cold, or I'd pour it over your crotch."

'You could, you should', Leonardo thinks, but keeps silent.

"He's not good for you."

Leonardo looks up, biology notes spread around him, sketches of eyes and people and memories, long forgotten scenes still clear in his mind, still vivid and living, and it actually takes him a second to get past the face that Vanessa is talking to him. It had to be her after Nico.

She bites her lips, shoulders her bag, looks for all the world like she's about to sit down, be Vanessa, his friend, but Leonardo isn't interested, not at all, and maybe she sees that, sees it in the way his eyes get a tad darker, the way his lips turn down.  
Maybe that's why she doesn't sit.

"We um," and she shifts from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable to confront him, adds, "I was on a date, with Giuliano." Leonardo could feel his eyebrows rise, confusion, maybe skepticism, what does she insinuate? There's a pause between them, Vanessa waiting for him to catch up but he doesn't, doesn't know what she's talking about and how should he anyway? In the end she's sighing and offers, "I saw you. With Riario."

And now Leonardo knows what she's talking about, can still feel that low burn inside, down deep, the thrill as Riario held him still by his jaw, or the back of his neck he can't remember, Riario's hands were everywhere, under his collar, under his shirt, opening his belt, he still hears how loud they' been breathing, both, moaning, grinding into each other, Riario's stubble scratching his skin when he'd ducked down to suck a mark there. And Lower. Lower. He can still feel that burst of nerve that had made him swing himself into Riario's lap, in the driver's seat, fingerprints on his thighs, bruises, all the dirty things in his ear, scars of scratches on his back, on his shoulders and the same marks on Riario's.

Vanessa saw. Vanessa and her beau, Giuliano, a guy Leonardo has only seen twice, knows his type, rich and arrogant, promised to another girl since ages and still searching his pleasure with naive girls like Vanessa, didn't she see, popular with anyone and future oh so bright, and since when did politics start to get so mainstream?

They'd seen something that wasn't any of their business only now Vanessa apparently thinks it is her business, thinks she has any right to tell Leonardo what is and isn't good for him, and yeah, okay, he knows that he and Riario are probably doing the worst thing ever, but fuck her, she doesn't have the right, isn't important enough to tell him what's right and what's wrong.

So he stands and says, "Hey," and starts stuffing everything into his bag messily, and he knows exactly, knows he'll regret that later, but right now he just wants distance between them, him and her, he needs to back out, needs to run, as far as he can get because he doesn't want to hear it, doesn't need their opinion, so he says, "You know what else isn't good for someone? Screwing around with a guy who's engaged with another girl, and most likely to marry her i want to add, and then trying to poach on my love life. Keep your breath to cool your porridge Vanessa, this is my life, not yours."

She's cat-calling at him and if he'd have been actually interested he'd have stopped to understand every word. But he leaves the library without looking back. He doesn't stop.

"It's Riario," and Zoro's voice is poison, spits the name out like it's an insult, like Leonardo should get why Zoro's so angry because Riario is not their friend, Riario is not even an ally  
and to be fair, Leonardo doesn't even know himself what Riario is, but Zoro is his brother, maybe not by blood, but he is, and he loves Zoro so much. But Zoro has never been able to see that just because someone isn't right for him doesn't mean they're not right for Leonardo and he wants Zoro to back off, say he'll trust Leonardo to know what he's doing, that he thinks Leonardo can make the right choice, doesn't need Zoro to meddle with his mind, his decisions.

Leonardo doesn't flinch, stares right in Zoro's eyes and both would never back down, Leonardo too stubborn, Zoro too concerned. But Leonardo doesn't need him to be concerned, Leonardo doesn't need him at all, he needs Riario, needs him to push him down on the bed, cage him with his body, make it hurt in that way that goes straight to Leonardo's marrow, straight to his mind to shut it off. Riario pushes and pushes and pushes, until Leonardo is all in one space, thinking about only one thing, pinned and whole and owned, and why doesn't anyone get that, why doesn't Zoro get it?

Leonardo can crawl into Riario's lap, doesn't have to say, "Please make me stop thinking," doesn't need to add, "Just a few minutes," doesn't need to make him understand how it feels like to be vibrating out of his own skin, for his brain to be a percussion section of thoughts. Leonardo just want someone to anchor him, keep him there forever and ever, or until he feels like he makes sense again, like anything makes senses again when his mind turns wild and everything feels like turning tables, until he can face the world and everything it entails again, and it's so much easier when someone had reminded you how to stay still, how to focus, how to be human, because who knows better than Riario how to pretend to be someone he is not?

So Leonardo just looks down, looks away from Zoro's dark eyes, from the concern in them, concern and something much more bitter, he looks to the window and says, "Yeah. It's Riario."

Zoro is his best friend, Zoro is his brother, and he loves Leonardo.

So he drops it.

They fuck again. Leonardo isn't sorry.

He wants to be, is sure he should be, but he has always been the person fascinated by the flame until he got burned, and nothing is more the epitome of that metaphor than their relationship. They're damaged and inhuman and bloodthirsty and they won't back down, never, they consume each other, an describable desire that only they can comprehend. Sometimes they forget how to be human, forget that they bleed and don't heal completely, scars and wounds from nights long past, both not baring their throats and show submission.

He's crawling into Riario's lap, kisses him, pleads, says his name, so Riario flips them over and pushes him down, fucks him as if there is no tomorrow, hard, without limits and Leonardo cries out, he's a mess, wants more, can't get enough, can never get enough, wraps his legs tight around Riario's waist, and the part of his mind that's still functioning properly thinks, 'That's right, that's natural, what's wrong?'

Riario pushes, always, pushes and pushes, until he has Leonardo pinned down, pleading, begging, praying, and Leonardo has never felt more solid than when Riario is pressing him, holding him in place, burning him in the mattress, and he wants this, he does, he does, please, wants a warm and solid body flattening him, can't he have that, just this once?

He's halfway trough a sketch of Nico sitting lazy near the huge windows, golden light illuminating his hair, shining like a halo, an angel with rosy cheeks and full lips and a longing gaze when it dawns on him. There is no more pretending, Leonardo is into Riario and Riario is everything wrong for him. Perfect, ideal Riario, golden boy of his faculty, a saint and a hallow, but Leonardo knew better, knew the predator under the skin, masquerading behind a pretty face and maybe that's exactly what Leonardo needed, a predator to hunt him down and give him purpose.

His eyes dart on the other page and sure there is a sketch, dark and still taunting, the face marbled on his paper and as perfect as if he could touch it, can almost see it moving around, can see the smirk and hear the voice, the rasp in his ear but Leonardo is not running, not anymore.

If Riario is the Big Bad Wolf everyone should warn him about, then Leonardo is Little Red and he's not listening, their voices too faint, too thin and Riario's eyes too lurking in the sinister of the woods, and instead of running he pulls up his red hood higher, wanders off the path, singing, 'My, what big teeth you have' and there is a game, it has always been a game between them, it's masochistic and destructive and they won't stop until one of them ends up broken and shattered, it's all about them, hasn't it always been?

It should feel like a panic attack, he should hyperventilate, his veins should throb from fear and terror and rushing blood and so much more, but he stays calm, deadly calm, breath even, mind clear, because he's just now realized that Nico won't get it, that Zoro won't get it, that Vanessa won't get it, no one gets it but him and Riario.

They both get it, both get each other and Leonardo couldn't care less if someone else get them.

So instead of saying anything (because really, what should he say?), he tears out the page, crumbles it in his fist and leaps up the couch, can't stand the look from this dark eyes, can't acknowledge something he's not yet meant to understand, not yet, asks, „What about pizza for dinner?"

No one understand them. No one ever will.

There was a message from Zoro sometime during a lecture from Verrochio on Michelangelo ('He'd be jealous of your talent Leonardo, don't waste it all the time'), reading 'Riario's on our couch' and when Leonardo gets home, he finds him reading his copy of The Never List.

There's no point in asking why Riario was here, no point in pretending something he already knew. So he flipped down next to him, lights himself a cigarette and waits. They sit in silence, Leonardo smoking and Riario reading but Leonardo was never one for waiting, his veins already pumping, his nerves tickling so he asks, "What do you want?" but he doesn't look at him, he waits an it's comfy, feels like something Leonardo can't describe yet.

Riario closes the book, already halfway trough it and looks at him, Leonardo can feel his gaze, dark eyes burning in his skin, lemon and saltwater in the air and not even the nicotine of his gasper can't adumbrate it (or perhaps it's just his imagination), and Riario says, "You."

And that's it.

"Why don't you work?," they lie together, tangled limbs and tangled sheets in Riario's perfect flat, the smell of lemons and saltwater overwhelming but his mouth isn't tired though. It never is.

When Riario doesn't answer right away, breath even on his neck, hands entwined over his stomach and there's a kiss and stubble rubbing over his neck, he adds, "You always have money, but you don't work. The insurance on the damned Lexus alone, I don't even want to think about that, seriously, Zoro's jalopy is like two hundred a month, and that's not including gas. What's up with that?"

There's a chuckle and the words tickle , ghost over his neck hairs when he answers, "Savings agreement. I invested most of it, got lucky with some shares and stocks. I can be really smart. I was Valedictorian in Columbia," Riario's chest is rumbling against his back as he speaks and Leonardo feels calm, safe, comfy, Riario continues, "Though most is paid from my family."

Something changes, something changed long before this happened and Leonardo's heart beats too fast, because this isn't them, this isn't what they do, Leonardo doesn't want to know this about Riario, doesn't want to let Riario be intimate with him, because that means things he doesn't understand, things he doesn't want to understand. It isn't meant to be more, they're not meant to get personal, not meant to get under each other's skin, to actually feel something.

His heart knows this things, knows them since the beginning, but his mind isn't ready, his mind is racing, the same beat as his heart and all he wants to do is to close his eyes, stop talking Riario, stop it, he wants to fuck again, wants Riario to pin him down again, wants him to do anything that makes his mind to block, stop talking, stop.

He doesn't want Riario to say these things, because that means Riario is going to want something back, and he can't, Leonardo can't. He can't. No. This is not something he'll let Riario just take like he takes everything else, because Riario always takes, takes too much, consumes them both, devours everything and everyone, the boy who bathes in gold, but Leonardo can't offer him something in return, because then he knows too much, and no. No. Leonardo won't. Riario can't do this to him, Leonardo can't share her.

So he pulls away, and Riario lets him, but he's looking at him like he doesn't get what just happened, and god, he's such a bastard, why does he think he can just do this?

He keeps silent, dresses and leaves the flat without another word.

Even fresh night air can't help him.

He can't breathe.

His mobile doesn't stop chiming, unknown number flashing over and over on his screen. He ignores them, all.

Both of them are the worst of losers, completely ignorant of what true winning really feels like, always on the winner side and never played against an equivalent rival, a nemesis, and all this really can be is nothing short of dangerous.

He longs to shout and break something just for the sake of self-preservation but this is bigger than the both of them and yet somehow only about them, stuck in the middle of this game where none of the rules are defined and there's no happy ending that anyone can measure, just a degree of losing that will taste like compromise and may actually involve death to some degree or another.

Perhaps, on second thought, to accept it, is the lesser of two evils.

It's two weeks later, almost, 10 days since he last saw Riario and the urge to go and see him is crushing, devastating and this must be some intergalactic joke because seriously, Leonardo doesn't do dependent, doesn't want to feel the need to crawl into someone else's skin and stay there until he feels whole again. He isn't that kind of person, is he now?

He spots Riario at a coffee shop with a good-looking girl, long brown curls, beautiful face, beautiful skin Leonardo can spot from his distance and god, fate must hate him, they look perfect together, complementing each other in ways Leonardo never could. And his heart agonizes, says, 'No, no, he's mine, what is he doing with someone else, what did I do wrong, get that bitch away, she can't have him,' and his mind answers, 'What did you expect? it's alright, this is how it should be, this is how it should have been from the beginning. The thing was convenient, you were a good time but you were not the one Riario wants to sleep beside. This girl is.'

There's nothing in between, they're nothing special, they don't belong each other.

Why did he think for even a second that he could be enough for him?

He really has no argument. He turns around and elopes.

His paintbrush bends like the arc of time, colors wash out from his memory onto the canvas, dark and black like the stains of the deep ocean, freckles of blue and gold and white. First, there were just blurred spots, then forms began to spread, outlines, a face, hair, a nose, eyes. He tells Nico it heals somewhat, heals him, and heals others who gaze upon time, framed in opulent gold windows into a worse, a more dangerous, a more true world.

Leonardo hasn't painted in years, dropped it right after he sold enough counterfeits to pay for his studies, saved some money, invested in some dubious business Zoro still prays was safe and sound, got busted and cleared his name helping the Mi6 to hack into the supercomputer of a local drug gang and get them the evidences they needed.  
He didn't touch a paintbrush after, though he could never stop sketching (dozens and dozens of sketchbooks could testify.)

He struggled years against the need to express himself, Riario brings it all back, pushes him at the edge of his mind, the edge of his heart and Leonardo follows, takes out the linen he hid under his bed, just in case, unpacks his brushes and starts. It's pathetic.

He takes a breath and continues to paint.

He finishes the canvas in 53 hours with a 6 hours break for sleep and a meal.

When he takes a second look at it, he feels as if Riario's eyes, no, the painting is taunting him.

(The urge to destroy it is tickling dark under his skin, but when he returns to cut it in half, Nico already put it away in a safe place.)

There's a message from an unknown number on his phone. It's an explanation or even an apology. It's about the girl. Her name is Lucretia.

It changes nothing.

Leonardo used to hope it would get better, three weeks later, phone died long ago and he didn't had the energy to power it up again, didn't want to deal with uncountable calls and messages he missed, an unknown number flashing on his screen, and now he knows better, now he knows it never will.

"I don't care what you think," he responds, snaps to the opinion Zoro doesn't need to voice, doesn't even lift his gaze from the sketchbook in his lap, his fingers dark from charcoal and pages full with dark eyes and a perfect face, adds in the same belligerent tone, "It isn't about Riario."

"If it were about biomedicine and not Riario you would be happy writing some complicated thesis about micro bacteria or anything else."

Leonardo doesn't answer, tears out the page and throws it after him.

Vanessa says, "No one likes it when you're sad Leonardo."  
Nico says, "I could talk to him?"  
Zoro says, "That's pathetic, Leonardo, get a grip."

And Leonardo knows there's only so much time and space he can put between them both before he's going mad, before his mind starts racing and he can't put it down, he feels the thrill, feels the need and strangely it's not the marihuana or the ecstasy to keep him calm, and it's not just his heart pleading for Riario, his body does too, prays that the man will push him down and all he can think is offer, offer, beg, beg, give, give.

He knows he can't push it off much longer.

In the end he snaps, can't think of any other response, voice in his head, reminds him, 'You were running before you even fucking left,' and it sounds too much like blame for comfort.

The rain streaks down the pavements, glitters under the streetlights, and Leonardo's mouth flicks in half-bitter half-rueful reminiscence, wonders when his life became this, wonders when his pride broke into a thousand pieces, like shattered glass.

They shouldn't be so similar, but somehow they are, and the places where they differ are almost irrelevant by now.  
Nothing's changed here and nothing ever will; not when you get right down to it, strip back the layers of hopes and smiles and uncover the traditions, knuckles white and clinging on fast. It's a pity and a reassurance.

Leonardo drags on his cigarette, spills smoke from a silent laugh, a pathetic laugh. The rain catches his hair and his eyes gleam in the city lights but all he can concentrate on is the nicotine in his system and Riario's flat, Riario's door, Riario, Riario.  
He's soaked to the skin and makes sure no one can see him, stabs the embers of the cigarette on the pavement, takes a last deep breath, and knocks on the door.

Riario knows it as soon as he opens the door of his flat, knows him, knows altogether too much and what he wants from Leonardo is not what everyone else wants from him.

It's kind of saintly, really, with more blood and torn arteries.

He leaves with morning dawn, tries to finish his thesis before his next session but he can't concentrate on the facts, doesn't find an answer to questions that doesn't interest him anymore, so he starts to question his life, his choices, his studies.

Riario's sitting on the steps of their loft when he returns, carefree and drinking from an obnoxiously large Starbucks paper cup, wearing aviator sunglasses and a half-smirk, as though waiting for the world to entertain him and Leonardo knows the feeling, but he doesn't think he feels it in quite the same way Riario does.

Riario looks at him in a way that showed Leonardo he understands, understands like no one else ever will and he knows then, that someone who can comprehend what the inside of his head feels like, isn't someone he should invite into his life, ignores that knowledge, puts it into a box and locks it. He'll probably pay for it sooner or later.

"I was going to send a text," Riario offers carelessly, "but I thought that was impersonal. And you'd probably only ignore it anyway."  
Leonardo takes a drag from his cigarette, head nicked to a side, but he doesn't answer him, wouldn't give away that he'd have texted back. Perhaps.

"I missed you," Riario adds,voice light, a knife stroking over bare thin skin before the plunge, but Leonardo stays calm, doesn't react to it, knew these words were due eventually, knew they both have to admit that.

"Yeah," Leonardo replies, because he's lame, doesn't know what to answer, the, 'I missed you too,' too much to ask and still it wouldn't be enough, but Riario gets it, always gets it, and he pushes his sunglasses up, eyes dark and jagged.

Leonardo opens the door and lets them both in.

"Riario," and it's a plea, it's a prayer, it's salvation, it's gospel.

It's enough.

Riario crawls in with him, wraps himself around Leonardo like he's a damn stuffed animal, presses against his back, chest warm and bare and limbs tangled, and Leonardo can smell lemons and saltwater, and he squirms, because it's not comfortable, it's too tight, too hot with them both pressed together like this. Riario keeps kissing him, never stops, hand smoothing over his skin, and Leonardo needs to get his brain back together, clean up and throw Riario out. Because this is not them, this should not be them. So he squirms, tries to get free, and Riario gets it, but the bastard doesn't let him, keeps kissing his neck, holds him firm in his arms, back on chest.

And Riario says, "No more games," and he means it, chest rumbling on Leonardo's back and this time Leonardo gets it and he wants to answer, wants to object, he's got a say in that matter, hasn't he?, but his mind is too occupied, warm, and lemons and saltwater and. And Leonardo gets it.

No more games.

He's in the middle of a lecture about 'The Importance of Reproducibility,' writes on his mobile a message but hesitates to send it, reads it twice before he finally hits send, to the unknown number, the one he won't give a name, writes, 'So are we a thing now?'

He gets back, 'You should pay attention to your class. Come over tonight and we can discuss this further.'

Leonardo smiles warmly, hits 'Save Number' on his phone and labels it Riario.

"What are you after?," Nico's voice sounds sad, worried and a bit like a plea, but Leonardo knows this isn't about Riario at all, this is about him, and Nico being worried for him, wanting to protect his friend from what he sees as a threat. Nico wants an answer Leonardo can't give him, not anymore, too much already between them.

So he answers, "Him," and it's all what he can say, because that's true. It's so true it hurts, and he knows Nico won't get it, neither will Vanessa staring at him, eyes wide open, sorrows clear on the creases on her front, but Leonardo can't have regards for her, for them, not now, so he adds, "I just want him."

There's a silence and Leonardo sees them both sharing a glance, both biting their lips and he'd laugh if the situation wouldn't be so absurd. "You don't get it," he whispers finally, doesn't even really mean it as an insult, despite how insulted he feels by how both of them treat his decision, but they won't get it, would never and Leonardo is sick pretending something's not there what clearly is. He says, "Don't worry, i don't care."

And means it.

Zoro shifts,uneasy, says, "This isn't about sex, is it? This thing you and Riario have," and of course it has to be Zoro asking the one thing Leonardo tried to ban from his mind long enough. Zoro again, Zoro who notices things nobody else does and how could he argue, how could he deny the answer to this question when his heart waits for his mind, waits for it and he didn't even notice that he held his breath, he says, "No. It's not."

And he kind of loves the way Zoro smiles at him, small and genuine even if he doesn't approve of Riario, he trusts Leonardo, and it disappears as soon as Nico looks over his shoulder. Because that smile is just for Leonardo right now, just for him, they're still brothers, they're still family, nothing changed.

And Leonardo loves him therefor.

They don't say 'I love you' and it's okay, it's okay. They don't need to describe it, both too proud, both too vulnerable as soon as they admit it. So Riario kisses him, soft and simple, and Leonardo knows it'll be okay.

Riario says, "I've never wanted anyone like this," and Leonardo knows it's true, he doesn't panic, just hums in agreement, doesn't need to word it out for Riario, doesn't need to say. They sit in silence, both tangled in Leonardo's sheet, pad in his lap and he's sketching warm dark eyes, a perfect laughing face, a smile and not a smirk, hands smudgy from black charcoal and everything smells like lemons and saltwater.  
Riario starts again, presses, "I wanted you to be mine."

Leonardo laughs, because it's funny, he closes the sketchbook, an anthology of Riario's perfection and Leonardo doesn't tear it out, not anymore, though it feels entirely masochistic when he answers, admits, "I was always yours."

He was always his.

Maybe it's adrenaline, or stupidity, might just be that, might not, anymore.

Maybe they just kind of love each other.

It's the same, isn't it?

Living the eternal cliche, it feels strangely finite as soon as Oxfords landmark protection gates fall close, the echo of it still ringing in his ears. Finally free, wasted youth, wasted future ahead, the brightest mind too bright to keep up with their shit any longer, too contradicted in his own actions. He just closed the chapter 'Oxford' in his life, dropped out of the university that promised so much but belied his mind, his brilliance.

The sky is a stunning clear blue and what matters a doctor or some degrees for someone who wants so much more and nothing at all?

His feet descend the stairs, eyes still on the sky until they spot the shining black car right in front of the entry, resting, waiting. Leonardo can hear the rhythm of minimalistic drums on the radio, underneath the crackling static of yet another irrelevant mashup song talking about summer, sex and drugs, boys with bad smiles, all part of a world that ended for him some minutes ago, leaving his friends, his family, leaving everything behind. There's a flash of a smile under some aviator Ray Ban's and that's all it takes for him to enter the car, slumping down expensive leather, throwing his backpack on the back-seat and really, he couldn't care less, could he?

He doesn't say a word, other than to state, "I don't want to go home", because Riario seems to be waiting for an answer even though he doesn't question anything anymore. There's a nod and a gesture that could mean anything, the road, the highway, the world, and Riario says, "How about Las Vegas?"

Leonardo's laughter breaks out without a warning and it feels good, it's warm and he feels alive like he never did before, it cracks in the middle and there's a clunking noise from the exhaust that feels like a gunshot and at the same time salvation, head rests on the seat, watching the man beside him.

"Not a 'no'," Riario offers, still a smile on his pale full lips, and reaches to turn the blurring radio up.


End file.
